The Ache to Get It All Right: Perfectionism, Survival, and the Soft Return to Self

Woman before a Mirror by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

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Do you ever find that some mornings there’s a weather that moves in before you’ve even opened your eyes?

It's not loud.

Not violent.

More like a low fog, seeping into the corners.

The ache to get it all right.

Settling in your chest before your feet touch the floor — that tight little knot of urgency.

As if the day has already decided you're behind.

As if there’s a scoreboard somewhere, ticking up invisible points that you'll lose if you don’t answer messages fast enough or fold the washing with a positive attitude.

You should do more.

You should be better.

You’re not doing enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Perfectionism doesn’t arrive with adulthood — it’s older than that.

It comes from a long-ago agreement we made with ourselves.

There was a time you were small — smaller than anyone really noticed —and the air around you felt sharp and changeable.

Maybe the grown-ups were distracted or angry or tired.

Maybe they clapped when you did well and went quiet when you didn’t.

So you made a silent promise:

If I just get it right, maybe I won’t be left.

If I just stay good, maybe no one will be disappointed.

If I hold everything together, maybe no one will fall apart.

You didn’t think of it as trauma.

You just called it being “a good girl.”

You didn’t know it was a survival strategy.

You just thought it was how love works.

Living with perfectionism is like living in a beautiful little cottage — charming, tidy, everything in its place —except the door only opens one way.

You’re locked inside with your expectations.

The fire’s always burning but never warm.

You polish the windows until they shine,

but no one ever sees you.

Because perfection is a costume stitched from fear.

Our culture doesn’t help.

It praises the woman who bounces back after heartbreak.

It rewards the one who answers emails quickly and never cries in the meeting.

It gives gold stars for burnout disguised as ambition.

But we are not machines.

We are tide and soil and skin and blood.

We are seasons.

We are meant to rise and rest.

To be messy and marvellous in the same hour.

To make art that’s unfinished and meals that burn a little and love that’s loud and awkward and real.

Somewhere deep in the forest, there is a path back.

It’s not tidy.

It’s not linear.

But if you listen — really listen — you’ll hear her.

The younger you.

The one who tried so hard to be pleasing.

She’s not angry with you.

She’s just tired.

She’s been standing still in a too-clean room,

holding her breath for years,

waiting for someone to say:

You can put it down now.

You can rest.

You can come home.

This isn’t about fixing your perfectionism.

It’s about recognising it as a story you told yourself to survive —and then choosing to write a new one,

slowly,

barefoot,

pencil in hand.

Not because you’ve finally earned rest.

But because you always deserved it.

You are not here to be flawless.

You are here to be free.